


The Forgotten Violin

by Mamaorion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bedsharing, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, H.I.A.T.U.S., Kissing, M/M, Parentlock, Remembering their first time, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Ticklish Sherlock, dads, hiatusubmission, monthly writing prompt, soothing nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamaorion/pseuds/Mamaorion
Summary: Four years into their relationship post s4, Sherlock can still soothe away nightmares with his violin. One evening, while Rosie is asleep and they have a small window of privacy, John and Sherlock cuddle in bed, recalling the night they first made love, and get rather inspired by the retelling.





	The Forgotten Violin

**Author's Note:**

> This started as the story of the case that finally brought them together after season 4, an adventure in Snowdonia To make the H.I.A.T.U.S. submission deadline, I had to rethink it. This 'reminiscing' version was the result. (Update! The full version is now posted - see The Red Ridge!)
> 
> Full disclosure: this is my very first love scene. I was pretty freaked out about it. But it was so fun!! Like doing the deed itself, the first few times are always a bit awkward. I hope it's enjoyable for all that.
> 
> Thank you for reading – I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Written for H.I.A.T.U.S. monthly Johnlock fanfic prompt: Bedsharing
> 
> Check out @hiatustory on tumblr: https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/

 

Sherlock sits at the center of concentric rings of paper, barefoot in soft pajamas and the indigo-blue dressing gown John gave him three birthdays ago. Eyes skipping between the pages, fingers tented before his lips, a pattern begins to form in his mind’s eye, a half-notion –

A thump from down the hall snaps him out of his reverie. Rising soundlessly to his feet, senses alert, he pads quickly across the carpet of the sitting room, stepping carefully between the papers. Another thump, louder, as if a kick has been aimed at the wall of his old bedroom.

He rests his ear against the door for several heartbeats, then turns the knob very slowly to prevent the old metal from creaking.

The dim room is in disarray – clothes strewn about, a window open. He catches his breath and rushes in. Tangled in the blankets, Rosie lies sideways, half out of bed, face pressed against the rug, asleep. One small, bare foot thumps against the wall, her limbs twitching beneath the wave of a nightmare.

Sherlock scoops up the limp five-year-old with a muttered ‘ooph’, wispy blond hair tickling his face, and gently settles her back onto the mattress. He doesn’t cover her with the blanket – she’ll just kick it off and get tangled again. In Rosie’s room, blankets are only for tent forts, or nests for the furry animals, but John still covers her up at bedtime each night. Sprawled on the galaxy-patterned sheet, her eyelids squeeze and teeth grind as she fights some nocturnal foe. The jut of her jaw makes her look just like John.

He finds his violin on the top of her bookshelf and begins to play Brahms. After only a few measures, Rosie sighs the shuddering breath of dream’s end and settles into a deeper, quieter sleep-state. He continues, but the playing become softer, slower, until the last note drifts off into silence. He places the violin and bow back onto her bookshelf and bends over his sleeping daughter’s face, lightly kissing her sweaty brow. She wrinkles her nose in her sleep.

Sherlock backs away, picking his way carefully over the loose scree of legos, and bumps solidly into John, hidden in the shadowy doorway. John catches him around the middle to stop his fall. They muffle their burst of laughter as Sherlock silently shuts the door. Walking slowly back to the stairwell, John slides an arm around his waist.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock mumbles apologetically.

“Not really. I was lightly asleep. When I heard you playing I wanted to check on her, too. You had it covered. So… I just enjoyed the show.”

Sherlock smiles and kisses his brow.

“Amazing, really,” John muses around a yawn, scratching his scalp sleepily, “how a little music works so well to ease her nightmares, and mine. Maybe she’ll sleep the night through, now.”

“She’ll be in our bed within three hours.”

John smiles ruefully. “Yea, you’re right. So why not come join me and catch a few winks before then?” He nuzzles the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “I might have a nightmare of my own I need you to save me from.”

Sherlock grins. “I’ll be right up. Let me stack these papers. I don’t want them drawn on again in the morning.”

 

…

 

John is curled onto his side and half asleep when Sherlock finally slides under the blankets of their bed, fitting into the negative space behind knee and curve of spine. In a gesture that has become automatic, he wraps his arm around John’s belly, chin nestled over his soft cranium. John gives an appreciative wiggle at his presence.

“I was remembering,” he mumbles, thick with sleep. “That night in Beddgelert. When you didn’t have your violin.”

Sherlock shivers pleasantly. “Ah,” he rumbles playfully into John’s hair, “what part are you remembering?”

John rolls over to face him, their noses lightly touching, and whispers coyly, “Oh, I remember being spirited off to Northern Wales on a case one weekend. I remember how excited you were to drag me up that god-forsaken ridge. You were so absorbed looking for clues that you almost didn’t notice when I very nearly toppled off to join the victim.”

“I remember _catching_ you,” Sherlock says mock-defensively, and though the memory is four years old, though John is safe and whole in his arms, legs tangled together beneath their blankets, he grips him, involuntarily, tugging him closer as if he might slip away.

“Mm, yes,” John hums into his ear, “I remember you saved my life, pulling me back up the rocks, how we clung together up there, just two little specs of people on that perilous rock. You held me through my panic until I could breathe again.”

“I don’t remember being able to breathe, _either_ , John.”

“I remember we turned back, going slow, the drop steep and sheer on either side of us, and you held my hand like I might fly away if you didn’t.”

Sherlock’s lips dip to press against the soft pulse at John’s collarbone, then wander along his neck and rough jaw.

John hums. “I remember we didn’t talk about the hand-holding.”

His lips stall on John’s temple. “I remember I was the biggest idiot in the world to drag you up there like that, as if some adrenaline was all we needed to get right again.” His throat clenches suddenly, surprising him with how affected he still is by that moment. “And then in an _instant_ I almost lost you. Rosie almost lost you. I don’t remember much of anything on the climb down. Except not letting go of you.”

John gently pushes his fingertips into Sherlock’s hair. “Would that have been literally, or figuratively?” His touch is feather-light, but John feels how tense he’s become. “Hey, hey,” he soothes, ducking to try and catch his eyes, brushing back the mop of curls. “I didn’t bring this up to make you feel guilty. If it hadn’t happened, we would have had a _very_ different night.”

Sherlock burrows against John’s shoulder, staying quiet for several breaths, the nerves of his scalp alight beneath John’s fingertips. The old fear begins to ebb.

“Okay?” John murmurs. In answer, Sherlock takes John’s earlobe between his teeth. John sucks in his breath. “So. That night. I remember how we came to our lodgings to find not two beds, but one. I still think you planned it.”

“I didn’t!” Sherlock crows, releasing the earlobe. “Though I wish I had. I remember I gallantly gave you the bed, determined to work through the night.”

“So gallant.” John kisses him lightly, then gently pushes Sherlock back against the bed and slides his fingers under the hem of his Tshirt, pressing lips to belly. “So clever,” he mumbles against his skin, “to give me an experience to fuel my nightmares, then conveniently leave your violin at home.”

“I didn’t do any such thing. I was _terrified_ watching you that night, I’d never seen you have such a - _ahh_ \- bad nightmare. Thrashing, weeping, and me with no way to comfort you. I remember how you cried out, _Don’t let me fall_. I put a hand on your shoulder, tried to wake you, called your name, but you were lost.”

He sighs, running his hands up John’s back. A kiss pressed against Sherlock's chest slides over his nipple. He inhales sharply and clutches at John’s hair as he climbs very smoothly between his legs.

“What did you do? How did you save me?” John breathes, pushing rhythmically against him.

“I laid next to you in bed and buried my face against your neck, I held you tightly so you’d know in your dream you were safe.”

“Like this?” he pants against Sherlock’s neck, licking his chest. Sherlock laughs.

“Decidedly _not_ like this–” he grins, sliding his fingers into John’s pants and wrapping him in his long fingers. John squeezes his eyes shut and arches into his hand.

"Hold on, let me just–" He tugs at Sherlock’s pajamas. Sherlock lets him go and obligingly tilts his pelvis for John to pull them off and toss onto the floor. "Yes, much better." John sits back on his heels, briefly enjoying the sight of him sprawled and breathless on the bed in just his shirt. With a startle, he suddenly jumps up, stumbling for a step, and locks the door. “Just in case.”

“Right,” Sherlock says hoarsely. "Get back here. Quickly."

John darts back to the bed, diving down to kiss at his ankles. Sherlock has to bite the back of his hand to keep from giggling, toes curling with the intense tickle.

“I remember waking in your arms, shocked as hell, hearing you repeating, _I’ve got you._ ” 

John takes his time, licking up the ankle, then the calf, behind the knee for another gasping spasm of ticklishness, up the inner thigh, fingers tracing light patterns along his skin.

“And then,” John looks up roguishly at Sherlock from behind his hard cock, whispering his fingers through the dense crop of curly hair. “And then…” He traces a finger along the base, evoking shuddering sighs. “And then... I told you I loved you. And I kissed you. And then I did something like _this_.” Cupping Sherlock from behind, he slides him into his mouth.

 

 …

 

John’s cheek rests on Sherlock’s belly, slick with sweat and the traces of their lovemaking. Sherlock idly ruffles John’s hair as he floats in a gauzy haze.

“I remember,” Sherlock says with a huge yawn, “that I wasn’t this sleepy afterwards, and we went round and round til the small hours of the morning, as if we were catching up for lost time.”

John chuckles. “We were. Made a good start of it that weekend, though. I remember we’d planned to sleep on the train home the next night,” John says with a twinkle as he sits up. He wipes his face and their bellies dry on Sherlock’s discarded T-shirt, then settles back against his chest. “But instead we found out you’re quite the insatiable top.”

Sherlock chuckles deep in his chest, the sound warm against John’s ear. Their heartbeats calm.

“Thank god you forgot that bloody violin,” John mumbles sleepily, suddenly perking up to glance at the clock on Sherlock’s bedside table. “Here, I’ll get you a clean set, we’ll have company within the hour unless you’re quite mistaken.” John stumbles sleepily to the dresser and tosses Sherlock shirt and shorts.

“Thank you.” He tugs on the clothes while John moves all evidence to the hamper, unlocking the bedroom door as he walks past. Sherlock rolls over with a deep yawn. “Lie in a bit tomorrow. I’ll handle breakfast and Her Highness’ whims. Maybe go to the park, collect bugs.”

“Mm, ta, she’ll like that,” John hums as he slides back beneath the covers. Sherlock kisses him softly, fitting once again into the space behind knees and spine, sleep pooling around him.

 

...

 

Sherlock wakes at 4:47am to find a small bare foot pressed against his cheek, their tiny daughter taking up the majority of the mattress between them, head resting on John’s blanket-covered calves. Not daring to move too much, Sherlock hugs her feet to his chest and wraps his arm around John in a gesture that has become automatic. A gesture that’s become _home._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you're curious about the case that brought them together, visit The Red Ridge in my list of works. <3


End file.
